Waking from a Nap
she saw stars wink
it was only glimmers of dusk
through a canopy of trees
He died down in the everbearing roses.
-Maxine Kumin, “Woodchucks”
The beloved bedraggled mutt is all fringe and tongue,
mottled as the floor of a patch of forest. She knows
from the smells (green lawn clippings, chlorinated
hosewater, some woodsmoke in the air, and a tinge
of metallic blood) where the vole mother lay, bit
by lawnmower. Like the ache of a primal thing,
she knows exactly where the body lies. She follows
its scent, a blur of khaki camouflage zipping
across the complex grounds, away from her ward
who follows, shouting her name. But the smell
and the pounding impact of her feet on asphalt…
then feet on grass again, then shaken darting vole.
It’s not the dog’s fault–she was programmed to run,
to fit her neat teeth delicate around vole necks.
Just like the vole, in its way, knew to slacken
in those teeth–
We say “You’re trash, rubbish, garbage”
all to mean “You’re worthless.”
But what is the worth of a trashcan?
Something that starts pristine,
empty but untarnished,
isolated but unalone,
awaiting influence.
Something we influence with leftovers:
picked clean peels of fruit and product,
oversaturated smears of tea and coffee,
folded fragments of labels and paper.
Something we fill the emptiness of
with what we’ve emptied,
it finding what we’ve emptied
to be its real fulfillment.
Something that weathers
soda splatters and odd scratches,
curdled odors and endless refuse
with the grace of that declared its antithesis.
WIth this something bearing the brunt
of our blunders more than we bother to,
what can we say but “You’re trash,”
only to mean “You’re brave, resilient, worthy.”
my mind is taking me flying
faster and faster
until i cannot run anymore
until i reach the end of the earth
my body is screaming for quiet
pleading and pleading
until i am pushed all the way down
until i will be forced to die
my heart is aching for flames
stirring and stirring
until i feel my worth give out
until i fear being alone
he’s pomegranate juice and polished lightbulbs,
surprisingly accurate pencil drawings,
piano phrases over and over and over
“sorry” and “I’m sorry” and
pleas that are too desperate to be honey-covered
eyes same as our mother’s; hair, too
he got all of her and I got all of our father
he’s the same books, same songs
grass stains and mud stains and torn shoes
math equations he calls super easy but gets wrong
almonds; cucumber and tomato salad
laughter for everything and nothing at all
he let me braid the front of his hair some days ago
started crying three minutes in, but
I’ve always wanted wings
they’d suit him better
From the Latin, ruminaire, to chew over again.
Foregut fermentation leads to rumination.
A good thing in cows, who regurgitate their food,
chew it over, get all the nutrients out.
Rumination in the human mind
comes from forebrain fermentation.
Thoughts fermented fester and rot.
Humans regurgitate their thoughts,
chew them over to get all the suffering out.
Thin fog drapes itself along the treeline while
crickets sing melodies that
thicken with the dewdrops gathering on fresh cut grass to listen.
The sun sleeps in–
tucking itself beneath a blanket of soft, grey clouds
People board airplanes that pierce the sky
interrupting this quiet scene
The engines hum and echo across the mountainside
The world is waking and I’m not ready to wish it good morning.
Casual Thoughts During Court’s Recess
My peers, most
lame,
dotty
dead.
Parts of me have fled
with press of gravity’s thrust and brevities.
Times I ran from task to task
heart sang,
feet flew,
hands deft,
Mind clear as an earth born stream.
falling
from its rock rimmed cleft.
God and nature reside on opposite side,
One forgives, the other creeps and steals
What’s best from His beloved creatures,
Image made with his forgiving will.
Nature leaves so little and first I saw some less,
Skin slipped under cruel duress,
Heart beat uncertain,
Liver dodgy,
Covid left the hair a mess.
Ah, but the worst is coming now apace
The lack of friend or loving grace. Age
Wicked enemy, masks me from sweet mankind,
Now a bearer of contagion and maligned.
Unclean, unclean I should cry as feet tremble
to find my steady step.
Back away, I am deadly truth that you
will too become as what you see.
Where is God in all of this opinion unkind, unfair,
What side does he defend for me in a losing battle
As the curse of age creeps to my last death rattle?
Ah it is a mystery yet unfound, we must wait and swear
To find someday the end of such fright, despair.
His promises flit from dream to dream and sprinkle
Exemption, redemption, a blessed ascension.
Meanwhile please I say, where is my wheel’ed chair?
Ahem, lady now is time for Order in the Court.
